They were up and on the road early the next morning, taking only enough time to eat a quick breakfast before setting out. Loghain rode his own gelding; for Alistair there was one of the better of the wardens' horses, an ill-favoured gelding with one blue eye and one brown, its rough-shorn coat as particoloured as its eyes. But it was a decent beast, even if ugly, and had a gentle stride. A pair of mules were laden down with their travel chest, packs, tent, bedrolls, and other gear.
He said a final few words to Sigrun and Varel, who'd come to see them off, then mounted up and led the way out of the gates, the mules following along behind and Alistair alongside. The boy was very quiet this morning, distracted by the effort of managing his mount. He had an adequate seat, though it was obvious from his manner that he wasn't used to riding. Loghain suspected he'd have saddle-sores by the end of the day, as he'd had on the trip from Amaranthine to the keep. He made a mental note to see that the boy started practising riding regularly, and wondered where he could fit it into Alistair's busy schedule.
He was, in fact, feeling cautiously pleased with how well Alistair had been applying himself to his studies so far. He didn't shirk off, or make excuses; if anything, he seemed to enjoy learning new things, and applied himself diligently. His only real fault, according to his various teachers, was that he was better at making sense of things that he could see before him than that he had to try to visualize from written descriptions. Witness how easily he'd made sense of those exercises in tactics the other night, once he'd been able to see them arranged before him on a sand-table instead of trying to picture it in his head.
That was going to need some work as well, obviously; the boy could hardly lug a sand-table around out in the field, and while maps usually made a decent substitute, it was best of all if one kept a map in one's own head for such things. A good portion of Loghain's own successes in the field over the years came about because he did keep such a map in his head, a very detailed one of every part of Ferelden that he had ever set eyes on, walked across, or rode over. Or crawled through the mud of, swam the waters of, or cursed his way through the tunnels of, for that matter. A useful skill, and one he hoped the boy would prove capable of.
He waited until Alistair was looking more at ease with riding before clearing his throat to gain his attention. "We might as well make profitable use of our time today," he said. "Tell me, if you had to hold this section of road against a force of foot-soldiers advancing from the south, where would you put your men?"
He was pleased when Alistair's first question was to ascertain just how many men he had, and of what types.
They stopped for a midday meal at a small inn just inside the Wending Wood. The innkeeper was clearly very pleased to see his Arl, and kept bowing to Loghain until his wife chased him away and saw the pair of them seated. The food was good; some spit-roasted goose, its skin crackling from cooking by the fire, steamed wheat berries, and a dish of leeks and garlic sauteed in butter, served with a nutty brown ale that was brewed on the premises.
Alistair wasn't looking forward to getting back on his horse, his tailbones and thighs already feeling rather well-worn from their morning's travel. Travel which had gone by surprisingly quickly, as distracted as he was by the multitude of questions Loghain had peppered him with all morning. Half of it had been spent working through tactical problems related to the varied landscape they were passing through, and the rest had been used in reviewing some of the other subjects he was taking.
He'd been surprised to discover how much of things like Ferelden's history, genealogy and heraldry he was able to remember, but then so much of that all connected together; a battle here leading to a newly founded noble family there, and their heraldry tied to surrounding events, more often than not. He'd also been first surprised, and then annoyed with himself, at how good he had felt when Loghain had given him an approving look and a slight nod over his having remembered some particularly obscure bit of information. He hated the man, with almost as much reason as Tisha did, he reminded himself. He didn't want Loghain's approval.
Even if it had felt nice to have someone's approval for once. Something he hadn't had since Solona and he had parted ways. She'd been one of the very few people in his life to think well of him; to value him. To seek out his advice, to actually think he was even worth listening to. He found a lump closing his throat, and had to push away the remainder of his meal uneaten.
Loghain paid for their food and exchanged a final few words with the innkeeper's wife, winning a broad smile from her, before leading the way back out to the yard. "There's an outhouse in back," Loghain told him. "Best we make use of it while we have the opportunity. Here," he added, and tossed something at Alistair.
He just barely managed to catch it without dropping it; a small ceramic jar, its mouth plugged with a leather-covered wooden stopper. He gave Loghain a questioning look.
"A poultice for your saddle sores," Loghain explained brusquely, then walked away, heading around in back of the inn.
Alistair bit his lip, surprised, then reminded himself that of course it was the sort of thing Loghain would think of. Alistair's sores might slow them down, otherwise. He should have thought of it himself, considering how painful the journey from Amaranthine to the keep had been. He headed around to the back of the inn, and took care of what was necessary. Getting back on his horse again afterwards still was far from pleasant, as was the prospect of several hours more riding today, but at least it wasn't quite as bad as it might have been otherwise.
Loghain was quieter during the afternoon, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. They only stopped once, dismounting to rest the horses and let them drink from a stream that passed near the road and then browse a litte. A pair of hunters came along while they were sitting and resting. Rather to Alistair's surprise, Loghain greeted the pair by name. The three of them then spent some little time in talk, discussing sights the trappers had seen in their travels, how the trapping had been over the winter, how plentiful game seemed this summer, and similar subjects, before the two men nodded a polite but otherwise informal farewell, and continued on their way.
He'd known the name of the innkeeper and his wife as well, Alistair remembered, and then thought about how the messenger from Gwaren had spoken of the miller's son – what had his name been... something short – as if fully expecting Loghain to know of whom he was speaking. As, indeed, he had.
When they overtook a woodsman later that day, walking along beside an ox-drawn cart piled with heavy sections of logs, he noticed that Loghain knew his name, too. The pair exchanged smiles and nods, and a few words about the current value of good black oak, and a question about the health of the woodman's wife, before Loghain touched heels to his horse and led them past the cart.
A startling contrast to Arl Eamon, Alistair found himself thinking, who more often than not hadn't even know the names of his own household servants, much less those of any of the Redcliffe villagers. Other than the mayor, and perhaps one or two other relatively important figures, anyway. Beyond that he'd only cared to know the names of the banns within his arling. Bann Teagan had been different, Alistair remembered; he'd always been impressed by how Teagan seemed to know everyone's name, not just at Rainesfere but everyone at Redcliffe too, and often enough about people to ask about how they or their family was doing. He remembered how warmly everyone would smile at Bann Teagan, how pleased the servants were to look after him when he came visiting, how the stable boys and grooms would almost compete for the right to look after his horse, in hopes of earning a smile and a word of thanks from him.
He found himself considering how much he'd always liked Teagan; because Teagan remembered who he was. Even after years without seeing him. Clearly the people of Loghain's arling were just as pleased that their arl knew them; that he considered them and their lives important enough to know their names, to remember who they were and a little bit about them. It was almost like a kind of magic, Alistair found himself thinking. He wondered if Loghain did it on purpose, out of a cunning knowledge that it would win him support, or if he just did it naturally, as Teagan had always seemed to. Loghain had been born and raised a peasant himself, after all, his childhood no more grand than that of his least subject. He'd married a peasant, too – a craftswoman. Perhaps to him they were important.
It fit, he found himself thinking, with the man whom Gwill had described; a good general, who valued the lives of his soldiers. And yet it fit not at all with a man who could knowingly sell citizens of Ferelden off to Tevinter slavers. Especially elves, knowing how they were treated there. Unless, like so many humans did, he thought less of elves than he would have of... of... of a mabari, or a horse. Talking livestock, little better than animals. But that didn't fit with the Loghain that Tisha's grandfather had known, either. Though people changed.
Still, it bothered him that he didn't understand Loghain. He'd thought he had, during the Blight year. It had seemed so simple and obvious then; there was Loghain, who was evil and power-hungry and wanted him dead, to whom he was completely willing to return the feeling. Then there were people like Cailan and Duncan, who'd been good people who died because of Loghain's treachery, and people like Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan, whose opinions he'd trusted even when it meant horrible things like him maybe having to become king. And Solona, who he'd thought he could trust too, right up until she agreed to make Loghain into a Grey Warden rather than executing as he so obviously deserved.
Even back then a few cracks had appeared in his images of people though. Like finding those letters in King Cailan's chest at Ostagar. Even Alistair wasn't politically naive enough to think that a marriage alliance with Orlais was in the least sane. Cailan would have been lucky to live much beyond fathering a living, reasonably healthy heir or two. And that Arl Eamon had been urging Cailan to set aside Anora after so few years of marriage, when he'd certainly never put aside Isolde during her long years of barrenness before Connor was finally born.
It made his head ache. Why did it all have to be so complicated now.
Tisha had been right about one thing though; it was easiest just to hate Loghain.
"You're very quiet this afternoon," Loghain said, glancing at the sky to judge the time, and choosing to ignore that he, too, had been less than communicative.
"Um. Just thinking about things," Alistair said, sounding uncomfortable.
"About anything interesting?" Loghain asked. "Anything in particular?"
"No, not really," Alistair said, and fell silent for a few paces, a slight frown on his face, then abruptly spoke again. "Why do you keep people like Tisha around, when she wants to kill you?"
"Or you, for that matter?" Loghain asked, a thin smiled crossing his lips, then shrugged. "People have been wanting me dead for most of my life. And usually making much more credible attempts at it than Tisha has any hope of achieving. The day I have to worry about someone as unskilled as Tisha getting the sharp end in, you might as well stack my pyre, because someone else will have beaten her to it."
"You've got a lot of enemies, then?"
"Maker, yes, of course I do. There's hardly a chevalier or nobleman in Orlais who doesn't wish he could decorate his sword with my blood and guts, just for a start. Half the women too, last I heard. The other half apparently want to marry me," he added, and gave a theatrical shudder. "Maker preserve me from any such fate. Then, of course, there are some of the finest flowers of our own Fereldan nobility, who've always hated that Maric chose to reward me so richly for my part in the rebellion. They see me as nothing more than a jumped-up peasant, conveniently forgetting that at some point in the distant past, so were their own ancestors. I'll admit that being made Teyrn of Gwaren was far better than I ever deserved, but Maric wouldn't listen to me when I said I'd be quite happy being a mere bann, and that I didn't even particularly want that."
He fell silent, remembering that argument. Maric had believed at the time that it had been why Loghain had gone off to Gwaren and avoided court for so many years afterwards. Loghain had been content to let him believe so, rather than ever telling him the truth. It had been years after Rowan's death before Maric ever admitted to him that he knew; that Rowan had confessed their affair to him, when the love between the royal pair had reached the point that they ceased keeping secrets from each other. Not that Maric had had many of his own secrets to share, never having bothered much to keep anything from her. Maric had regretted that, in retrospect, he said; that he'd cared so little for her good opinion of him that he'd made no effort to hide his dalliance with Katriel from her; that if anything he'd flaunted it.
"Rowan was better than I deserved," Maric said, staring into his goblet of wine – they were of course both well into their cups, or the conversation never would have gone where it had. "I am eternally grateful that she was able to forgive me; to share her life and eventually her love with me."
Loghain had said nothing in return; he could hardly disagree, and yet saying yes would have said both too much and too little. Maric had smiled, and poured them more wine, and they'd sat in silence the remainder of the evening, just two old friends sitting by a fire, sharing good wine and lost in memories.
He realized he'd been silent for too long, and hastily resumed speaking. "Nor are they the only ones. There hasn't been an army yet where at least some of the soldiers didn't bear a grudge for their commander. Because of an order given or not given, a punishment received – no matter how well-deserved – or a death or maiming in battle that they thought could have been avoided. Not to mention the inevitable madmen who seek to kill anyone of repute, as if by murdering someone well-known or well-loved they can somehow acquire some of their fame or win the affection that is missing in their lives."
He glanced over at Alistair. "Anyway, I am not so overburdened with wardens that I can afford to lose even one, even if that one hates me," he said, endeavouring not to make his tone of voice too pointed. The boy still winced slightly anyway, he was obscurely pleased to see. "We should make camp soon," he continued, changing the subject. "We'd have to push on too long after dark to make Denerim tonight, and I'd prefer to camp before we start running into the swarms of insects near the Blackmarsh. There's a clearing half a mile further ahead, just off the left side of the road; watch for a tall cedar, it's the only one right along the road in this stretch."
Alistair nodded, looking attentively around, and a short time later pointed ahead. "Is that the tree?"
"Yes, it is," Loghain agreed, and a few minutes later they turned off the road and onto the narrow trail leading to the clearing.
He was pleased to see that Alistair knew his way around setting up camp for the evening; even moving slowly from the pain of his saddle sores, he was off his horse and hauling the tent down from mule-back as soon as they'd stopped. Loghain didn't have to instruct him at all, and in a refreshingly short time the pair of them had the tent raised, the horses and mules unloaded, watered, hobbled and put to graze for the night, wood gathered, and a pottage simmering over the fire. But then the boy had spent over a year tramping from one end to the other of Ferelden and back again, and half a year among more knowledgeable wardens before that, and they weren't exactly known for being sedentary.
Doubtless he'd even learned a thing or two when in training to be a templar, though overall Loghain thought little of the templars as far as being any sort of military organization. Too little discipline among themselves and almost no training at all in anything more than very small-unit movement and tactics; they only rarely travelled in anything bigger than a four-man patrol, and more often just in pairs in the more settled areas. Their biggest danger, he felt, was in their sheer numbers, and the fact that their loyalty lay to the Orlesian-based chantry, not anywhere within the countries where they served.
The pottage, he decided when they sat down to eat some time later, could have used a little less salt and a little more herbs, but he'd had worse. It was at least warm and filling and reasonably tasty, and Alistair blessedly wasn't one of those people who felt like they had to fill every moment with idle chatter. If anything he was usually too quite, speaking only when Loghain made some effort to draw him out. Understandable, he supposed; the boy didn't much like him, after all. He remembered his own initial dislike of the boy's father.
Maker... that brought back memories. That escape with Maric through the Korcari Wilds following the murder of Queen Moira, after Loghain's father had been killed covering their escape, killed by the Orlesian soldiers on Maric's trail. The only time Maric had shut up the first few days had been when he was deathly ill, while the only times Loghain had spoke had been when he absolutely had to. Maric been almost entirely useless at anything other than talking, unable to even light a fire on his own, much less forage or hunt or find his way through the wilds without getting lost. Alistair might look a fair bit like his father, except for the eyes, but he was very little like him otherwise. Mind you, he was a few years older now than Maric had been than, and by Andraste's arse didn't that thought make Loghain feel old and tired, especially when the boy looked so blighted young to him.
He supposed Alistair wasn't really all that young though, nor a boy, no more than they had been. He still remembered Maric's shock at eventually learning that Loghain was even younger than he was. Not that there'd actually been all that much difference in their ages, but Maric had been assuming all along that Loghain's knowledge and maturity were the product of extra years, not just of harder experience. Maric had buckled down after that, he remembered, and taken the time to learn how to look after himself.
Not that Maric had been entirely helpless, even then; this was after all the same Maric who, alone and unarmed, had still bashed in the head of one of his pursuers shortly after his mother's murder. Against a tree root, as Loghain recalled the story shared with him some years after the fact by Maric. Another of those nights when they'd been drinking together by the fire; Maric had learned the value of a good silence by then, but he still tended to be talkative when in his cups.
Maker, he missed the man. Looking across the fire at his son made it hurt all the more, and made him very thankful that Alistair preferred far shorter hair that either Maric or Cailan had favoured, and had brown eyes instead of blue. Not that Alistair's hair was as cropped as the boy had previously kept it; it was still showing some vague resemblance to the short, shaped cut Loghain remembered him as having, but rather longer now, grown out and shaggy. He wondered if Alistair was planning to let it continue growing out, or would resume cutting it short now that he was beginning to look after himself properly again. He hoped for short; Alistair reminded him too painfully much of Maric and Cailan as it was.
There was little for them to do that evening, apart from cleaning up from their meal. Loghain spent a little time quizzing Alistair on his recent lessons rather than seeing the time go entirely to waste, but his heart wasn't in it. "We might as well turn in early," he finally said. "The earlier to bed, the earlier we're likely to be up and on our way in the morning."
Alistair nodded, and the two retired to their tent. Loghain was amused, and just the slightest bit annoyed, to notice how embarrassed the boy was again made by Loghain's near-nakedness. Alistair was clearly also uncomfortable with removing his own armour and clothing in Loghain's presence, swathing himself in a voluminous nightshirt and his blankets early on in the process and trying to undress under cover of it all, a difficult and time-consuming process.
"I suppose I should point out that your exceeding modesty is misplaced," Loghain said dryly. "You don't have anywhere near enough curves nor the right physical equipment to be my type, and surely after a life as a stable boy, chantry student and templar-in-training you have spent considerable time in dormitories. You should be used to sharing accommodations with others of the same sex."
Alistair's blush darkened further, though at least a little of the tenseness went out of him. "That was different," he said a short time later, as he pulled his quilted leggings out from under his blankets and put them neatly aside
"How so?" Loghain asked as he wrapped himself up in his own blankets and tried to make himself comfortable; something he didn't find overly difficult, having spent most of his life, or so it often seemed like, sleeping in tents on the hard ground rather than in a real bed.
Alistair was silent for long enough that he'd begun to think he wasn't going to answer, and then he did. "Because none of them ever tried to have me killed."
That startled a brief laugh out of Loghain. "All right, I suppose I deserved that," he said, rolling over on his back and smiling up at the tent canvas overhead, then sighed. "I promise you I have never made a practise of killing my squires, and of the two of us in this tent, I'm fairly certain that you're more likely to try and harm me than the reverse. You are my squire, which means you are unfortunately going to have to get used to such things as seeing me in various states of undress, and sharing quarters with me, and not always with the benefit of separate rooms. You can either continue letting it bother you, or you can accept it and learn to live with it. I would further note that in any military organization – templars, soldiers, guardsmen, or wardens – there is often little room for niceties in the field, and we won't always have time for modesty. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ser," Alistair said, sounding more abashed than grudging, which Loghain decided was good enough for now.
"Don't forget to use some more of that poultice," Loghain said, then closed his eyes and, near-presence of someone who likely wished him dead or not, was soon fast asleep.